


Can You Learn to Look Ahead

by Dorinda



Category: I Spy (TV)
Genre: Culpfest 2010, Death Wish, First Time, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-16
Updated: 2010-08-16
Packaged: 2018-01-07 00:10:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorinda/pseuds/Dorinda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kelly is waiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can You Learn to Look Ahead

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2010 Culpfest on the [truetrue](http://groups.yahoo.com/group/truetrue/) listserv. Thanks to [](http://heron-pose.livejournal.com/profile)[**heron_pose**](http://heron-pose.livejournal.com/) for the fest, [](http://mollyamory.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**mollyamory**](http://mollyamory.dreamwidth.org/), [](http://marycrawford.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**marycrawford**](http://marycrawford.dreamwidth.org/), and [](http://arduinna.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**arduinna**](http://arduinna.dreamwidth.org/) for read-through, and [](http://msmoat.dreamwidth.org/profile) [msmoat](http://msmoat.dreamwidth.org/) for extra morale.

**I. 1962**

Waiting to get executed was more boring than Kelly had expected. He'd paced the perimeter of the locked room twenty or fifty times by now, kicking and shouldering the door every time he passed it. Scratching his name on the wall with a stone, K.R. Was Here, sketching a crude Kilroy. He hated to go out so soon, waste all that time the spy school boys had put in before he'd even qualified for the big jobs. Ruin old Uncle Sam's latest investment. But he rubbed his hands together and warmed himself with the thought that as soon as that door opened, he'd be taking a few of the bad guys down with him. He planned for two, to start; more, if he moved fast enough and the element of surprise held. His instructors would get a kick out of the post-mortem, if he had anything to say about it.

 _Let's go, let's go._ Fight-or-flight adrenaline couldn't last forever. He tried to pace himself, banking it down, running through the first kill in his mind like he ran through his opening serve before a match. Concentrating. His time, at last. At long last.

By the end of his service in Korea, he'd found himself daydreaming--first now and then, but eventually every day, and finally every hour, a dream he held on to like a wish. Nothing fancy, a simple scenario, really, familiar as a bedtime story: a grenade rolls in, or flies through the air, landing with that dull thump like one half of a heartbeat. And all the suspense is over, all the regret, all the questions he couldn't figure and the answers he couldn't face: he'd fly for it spreadeagle, dive like a fishing gull, muffling the bomb sweetly under his body. Out he'd go. Win-win situation. He'd waited for it, but his tour was up and it never came.

Until now. A key rattled in the lock. He grinned. Crouched. Flew.

* * *

"He's asleep. I'll come back."

Kelly forced his eyes open, but couldn't focus them quite right. He blinked at the wavery figures standing over him.

"Just had to prove me wrong, huh?" the same voice said, and with a few more blinks he resolved into a dark, serious guy in a dark, serious suit. Alex Scott, from spy school.

"As always," Kelly said. Or tried to say--his voice was mostly a dried-out husk, and his mouth felt like it was coated with rubber cement, so he sounded like a belt sander that had learned how to talk.

But Scott nodded anyway, sardonic, rolling his eyes to heaven. "My mother taught me never to argue with a man who's clearly delusional." He turned politely to the other figure--a nurse, all in white, and with the hat, too, just like in the movies--and took something from her, a small glass with a straw. "I've got this, thank you, ma'am."

Kelly closed his eyes again, just for a second, and their murmuring faded. Nothing hurt, nothing even registered--he was wrapped in cotton padding, floating, disappearing bit by bit. Goodbye, good night.

"Hey."

Eyes open again, like forcing up rusty windows, and Scott was sitting in a chair that hadn't been there before. He lifted the glass. "Drink?"

"Two olives," Kelly croaked. Scott leaned in, held the straw to his lips, and he drank in weak sips, sucking air in between.

Drinking most of a glass of water wore him out, and he lay in a weary silence, watching his visitor. Guy hadn't even loosened his tie. Maybe they were just biding time till his funeral, and Scott was chief pallbearer. Might as well be, Kelly figured; no one else around to push for the job.

It felt like a long time between some of his blinks; by the last one, the light through the window had definitely shifted. Scott didn't seem restless or anything; he sat with his big hands splayed on his thighs, still and thoughtful under Kelly's fuzzy stare.

"What're you doing here?" Kelly asked after a while, when he could muster the energy. "Or did I already ask you that?"

"Oh, just waiting," Scott said. And sat there.

Kelly hated to be predictable, but his head ached, and finally he had to give in. "Okay. I'll bite. What for?"

"For you to get well enough to climb up out of that bed and get back to work."

Kelly blinked at him some more, but these were regular blinks, where his eyelids didn't feel like they were made of gravel. "You lost me."

"Big surprise," said Scott, in that deadpan Kelly remembered from training. "But you're gonna have to try to keep up with me from now on."

"Oh?" Kelly eyed him. "Let me guess--you ditched the Department, and now you're my physical therapist."

"God forbid," Scott said. "We're going to be a field team." He reached into the inner pocket of his immaculate suit and withdrew a piece of paper, holding it up so Kelly could see it.

See it, but not focus enough to read it, not with this head. "I can't help you with your homework now," he said. "I'm kind of busy."

Scott waved the paper a little. "Commander Riddle's request went through. These are my orders. Your orders, too. Field team Robinson and Scott." He frowned. "Must be a typo--should say 'Scott and Robinson.' Availability level: international, on-site, mobile, deep cover. Cover story pending."

Kelly looked vaguely at the smudgy carbon. He was having trouble caring about orders. For a minute there, he'd thought he was done with all that, for that minute when he was in the middle of the guys at the door, gouging and crushing, feeling eyes and throats give way under his blows, waiting to be overcome at last. He hadn't expected the fadeout to give way to a sequel. He sighed, working his dry tongue awkwardly in his mouth.

"So." Scott folded up the orders and tucked them neatly away. "The sooner you're up, the sooner we can get to work."

"What's your rush, Captain America?" Kelly said irritably.

Scott eyed him a second, then half-turned, and turned back with another little glass of water in his hand, proffering the straw. Kelly sucked on it, glowering.

"I need all the head start I can get," Scott said, his voice so cool it was almost chilly. "If I'm going to train you up right."

Kelly narrowed his eyes, swallowed, and took a breath. "Oh, I think I've got it under control, but thanks, there, Professor." He drank more, to show how unconcerned he was.

"Under control?" Scott said, tipping the glass to just the right angle as the water level sank. "Look at you, they beat on you like Gene Krupa."

"Like to see you do better," Kelly muttered, and drank deeply.

Scott replied, with infuriating confidence, "There's other things to do with a locked storeroom than use it as a launching pad for a kamikaze."

Kelly spat out the straw. "Like what? Invite the bad guys in for a meeting? Annoy them to death?"

"Traps. Decoys. Improvised explosives." Scott set the glass aside and folded his hands. "I bet you never even paid attention during Advanced Blowing Stuff Up class."

Well, he had him there. Damned if he'd say so. "Sometimes you just have to jump first and ask questions never."

"Jump the wrong way and you land on the grenade," Scott said.

Kelly's insides twisted. He didn't know if he'd talked in his sleep, or if it was just a lucky stab, but either way-- "Oh, behold the poet," he shot back. "This job is wasted on you. After all, you're gonna live forever."

"Maybe not." Scott shrugged coolly. "But it looks like I'll live longer than you."

Kelly stared at him, and with a sudden effort pushed back the blankets. "We'll just have to see about that. Now where the hell do they keep the john?" He heaved himself out of bed on the arm of his new field partner, grumbling.

His rate of recovery startled the doctors, who were forced to discharge him two weeks early.

  


* * *

  


**II. 1965**

Waiting for the air to run out was kind of peaceful. They couldn't keep from talking, but it was quiet and sparing (for them, anyway), and they groped around the dark little cargo container with slow, easy movements, feeling every wall top to bottom.

"Nope," said Kelly. He sat down, arms wrapped protectively around his hurt ribs, listening to the soft noises from Scotty's direction. "Anything?"

"Not yet."

Kelly relaxed against the chilly metal wall for a minute, breathing through the pain, willing his heartbeat to slow. Save some of that extra air for Scotty, who needed it.

He listened to the sounds moving closer, until finally Scotty sank down next to him, letting out a careful breath. His arm and shoulder brushed against Kelly's. "Wall three, no go."

"Gimme a minute, I'll do four."

"I can manage it. Just gotta regroup," said Scotty. "You sure you don't have a lighter on you?"

Kelly sighed into the blackness. "Yeah. Unless I swallowed one during breakfast and forgot about it."

"Three years in the field, dodging supervillains and their death rays, and I'm laid low by the case of the missing lighter. Man, when we get outta here, I'm gonna file a formal complaint."

When. Yeah, that was Scotty talking. "You go right ahead. Take it up with the Zippo corporation."

"Don't you think I won't."

Scotty got to his feet and headed away again, moving to the final wall. Kelly listened to the soft exploratory noises, falling into a half-doze that part of him knew was a bad sign. Course, the less air he used up, the better the chances that Scotty would still be alive when the ship finally drifted into busier waters. So really, there'd be a bright side when he stopped using any air at all.

He closed his eyes. Drifted. Went under.

* * *

Something was cold against his face. Cold and hard. He made a protesting noise.

"Breathe in," Scotty said.

"No thanks..." His own voice sounded soft in his ears. Kind of wavy. "Couldn't eat another bite."

"I said breathe _in_ , you troublemaker, or I'll pump you like a bellows."

Kelly took a breath, just to get him to shut up. The trickle of air was cold. Clean.

"Found a crack." Scotty settled in behind him, not quite touching. It felt like Kelly was lying with his face close to the seam where the wall met the floor. Scotty must've dragged him there. Air-waster.

He took another breath. Tasted good. "Found?"

A shrug brushed against Kelly's back. "Found the start. Made the rest. Can't get it any wider, though."

"Come and take your turn." Kelly sipped another breath, one to last him, and tried to scoot himself away.

Scotty easily stopped him simply by virtue of refusing to move, his body solid and braced. "I had mine. And some gets past you, even with the mouth you got."

So Kelly grudgingly hogged the air for a while, his head clearing, the pain reawakening in his chest. Scotty settled in comfortably, his living warmth an antidote to the chill in Kelly's bones. They kept each other awake, talking, complaining, going off on flights of fancy. Until Scotty veered away from the game they were playing of Guess That Boss (they'd used up all the fun ones, anyway) and said:

"Well, what do you think you're gonna do with yourself once you don't have Russ to boss you around anymore?"

Kelly hmphed. "Don't you know anything? He'll always be here. He's immortal. Cut off his head and he'll grow two new ones."

"No, man, I mean after you get out."

"Out of here?"

" _Ou-ut_ ," Scotty said emphatically, giving it two syllables; Kelly could hear the long-suffering look on his face. "As in out of this business. You know--that kooky little thing called life? After the Department? Maybe you've heard of it."

Kelly'd heard of it. He just...he found he didn't believe in it.

"You first," he said.

And after Scotty had dreamed out loud for a while, a home, a quiet job in the neighborhood, maybe a family, Kelly just said, "Yeah, me too." Proof positive that Scotty didn't catch him in every lie.

The Coast Guard found them, the doctors patched them up, and the bosses sent them out again. Kelly bought a new lighter.

  


* * *

  


**III. 1970**

Waiting for Scotty to come back from the meeting was every bit as terrible as Kelly had feared.

He'd thought he would've been ready for it by now. He was an expert at losing things. He'd had all the practice in the world, and practice was supposed to make perfect.

Wasn't that a laugh.

He lay on his bed, the bedspread rumpled uncomfortably beneath him, hands folded around the full bottle of tequila balanced on his chest. The bottle dug in to old, old aches, heavy and dead-cold.

He longed to snap the seal and start drinking, and forget about coming back up for air. But of course Scotty would know why. And Kelly wouldn't cast a shadow on his triumph, not for anything in this world.

Slowly, his legs weighing a hundred pounds apiece, he got up and put the bottle back on the chest of drawers, next to the empty ice bucket and the clean glasses. He'd just have to hang on to it until he was on his own--shouldn't be too long. For now, he knocked himself back on track with a shave and a change of shirt. No law against going out for the afternoon (into the evening, and then into the night) and forgetting a thing or two. Scotty could stay in and get a jump on his packing, and Kelly wouldn't have to work so hard at smiling. Bartenders were used to the thousand yard stare.

The sound of the suite door sent a painful twitch through the muscles of his shoulders and the back of his neck. He took a breath so deep that his ribs complained again. By the time Scotty entered the bedroom, Kelly was blithely tying his tie.

"Herman!" Kelly said. "How were the salt mines?"

"Mighty salty," Scotty said, unbuttoning his jacket. He'd worn his best suit; Kelly didn't know why he bothered, since the bosses would love him even in rags.

"Well, you know what they say." Kelly put on his own jacket as Scotty took his off, like mirror images gone awry.

Scotty hung up his jacket, untied his tie, and finally said, "Uh, what is it that they say, sir."

Kelly shot his cuffs and smiled big, cocking his head. "I thought _you_ knew." He headed for the door, trying to make that an exit line.

"Be good," Scotty said, as he often did. "Write when you find work." He pulled his shirt off over his head without unbuttoning it, revealing the bandage under his right shoulder blade.

Kelly hesitated. "Need...anything?"

"Shower." Scotty padded across toward the bathroom, passing very close to Kelly. Without thought, Kelly did what they usually did these days: he slipped finger and thumb around the edge of the gauze and let Scotty's momentum peel the bandage off. It came off in one piece, mostly, though a scrap of tape remained on Scotty's back. The wound looked very good, practically healed. Giving a lazy salute without turning around, Scotty continued into the bathroom.

Kelly crumpled the bandage up and flung it at the trash can, but missed. He swore under his breath, and Scotty reappeared in the bathroom doorway.

"Towel?" Scotty said. His suit trousers were unbuttoned, hanging low on his hips.

Kelly ferreted a clean one out of the bureau and brought it over. "Hey, man, I wanted to say, you know...congratulations."

Scotty looked down at the towel and then up again. "I've taken showers lots of times," he said.

"On your promotion, nitwit." For a second, Kelly's good cheer almost felt real.

"Oh, that," Scotty said.

"Oh, _that_ ," Kelly echoed. "Doesn't sound like the tone of a freshly promoted bright and shining star, to me."

Scotty took the towel. "Nope," he said quietly.

It took Kelly a second. "You didn't," he said at last.

"Is there a washcloth in that bureau?"

"You _didn't_."

Scotty slung the towel over one shoulder. "Guess I'll have to rough it."

"Scotty!" Kelly felt a blaze of anger shoot up from the very tips of his toes right out the top of his head. His vision actually felt a little blurry with it for a second. "You saw this coming. We _both_ did. How could you turn them down?"

"Well." Scotty leaned against the doorframe. "That's what you do, you see, with offers that you do not want."

"Don't want?" Kelly forced himself to keep his voice even. "Like _hell_. I'm not an idiot, you know."

"You're starting to do a pretty good impression, Hobey." Scotty's voice had sharpened just a bit, but his posture remained cool. Somehow it rasped on Kelly's nerves like biting on iron filings.

"Okay, well let me add a little something to the puppet show, then." There was a sour taste in his throat. "Seems like the only thing that could be holding you back from the rewards you deserve--and those bosses are aching to reward you, man, you know they are! The only thing dragging on your heels is me. And I don't want you to stick around just because you don't trust me to get along without a nursemaid."

Scotty's brows finally lowered. "Just a minute. Take another look at that. Maybe it's the other way around--you don't trust me to know what I want."

Kelly felt cornered, and mean as a scorpion. "Oh! I see. I'm supposed to just let you burn that bridge, then, huh. Keep you down here in the rat race with the rest of the rats? What do you think your mom would say to that?"

He felt ashamed even as he said it, and wasn't surprised to see Scotty's cool posture stiffen up. For a second, he thought they might really get into a hassle, the kind of thing that hadn't happened for years. But all at once, Scotty looked down, let out a breath, and his entire body settled again. When he looked up, he was actually _smiling_. Just a little, but not bitter, and not cold--he looked shy, somehow.

"Take a look in my wallet," he said. "It showed up right before we left Panama." And he stepped back into the bathroom, swinging the door to.

Kelly turned away, the comforting anger dwindling. He tried to keep a hold on it, but it took too much fuel for the fire, and in moments it was gone.

He remembered Panama. Not the assignment, exactly--that blurred into a dozen others. But the night before the assignment, the end of their vacation, that memory would never leave him, even if he wanted it to. Hot, humid, crickets buzzing outside...he and Scotty had dragged their mattresses from that hotel's cramped bedroom down into the sitting room where the big windows caught the only breeze. Loose and mellow from a long, untroubled vacation, they'd sprawled there, side by side, murmuring and laughing. Kelly hadn't even had anything to drink, and of course Scotty hadn't either, but between them they were pleasantly loopy, and next morning's assignment seemed very far away.

Even though it felt too hot to sleep, Kelly had dozed off, probably in the middle of telling some stupid joke. And when he woke, still in the dark of night, he found himself holding on to Scotty. He breathed the familiar scent of Scotty's neck, one arm across Scotty's waist and Scotty's hand over his, fingertips stroking back and forth. Where they touched, a film of sweat slicked their skin.

Granted, even on assignment, Kelly was likely to find himself sleeping with his head on Scotty's shoulder, or pillowing Scotty's head on his stomach. But this was something different... or maybe it was actually the same, but had simply become more, on the surface now, letting them rest together in this warm, endless night with nothing to fear. He'd let out a long breath, feeling empty of all his worries, then nestled close and slept for real, blissfully dreamless.

When he woke at dawn, they were apart again, and in the dull gray light it hardly seemed like something that could have happened. Except that on the mission, Scotty seemed preoccupied--maybe not cold, but very quiet. His mission performance was excellent, of course, and not long afterward had come the percolating gossip about impending promotion out of the field, and eventually a summons to the throne.

Kelly approached Scotty's hanging jacket with vivid memories of minefields. The wallet was deep in the inside pocket, and Kelly extracted it and thumbed through it as if it were fragile. There was the old snapshot of Kelly wearing the lampshade--did he still carry that ridiculous thing? A snap of them together, one of the kind they always sent home to Mom. Money from a few different countries. The address of a hotel in Athens. This and that.

And one page of a letter--just a middle page, undated and unsigned, on flowered stationery. It was soft and creased, obviously unfolded and refolded many times by now. Kelly would have recognized that neat, elegant handwriting anywhere.

_not one to complain, I know, but I can tell when you're struggling with your heart. You've always known there are things we must do for others. It was important to me that you grow up understanding this. But you seemed to take it too much to heart, sometimes. Do you remember the charity collection, when you were six? You had already collected twice as much as anyone else when you came down with the measles. But even though you were so sick, when I said you couldn't go out with the other children to finish the collection, how you cried. You were never very good at knowing when enough was enough, and when it was time to look after yourself. I suppose it just takes time.  
        You sound so tired, Alexander. I think that old tennis circuit isn't treating you boys right. Why don't you and Kelly come on home for a while? You two can help me with_

Kelly stood with the wallet in one hand and the soft little paper in the other, feeling heat rise in his cheeks and up his neck. After a minute, he refolded it and tucked it in again, with great care, and put the wallet on the bureau.

He paused outside the bathroom door--the sink was running, but not the shower. All his old doubt assailed him, a lifetime's worth, pulling him under. Maybe he should wait.

 _No_ , he thought, surprising himself. _Not anymore._

He pushed the door open gingerly, and there was Scotty, finishing a shave. He looked over, his eyes gentle and uncertain. And after all these years, it was that uncertainty that clinched it.

"She's right," Kelly said. "You do sound tired."

"She always knows," Scotty said.

Kelly stepped into the room. "Here. Let me help you with that, there, Boris." He carefully peeled the last bit of tape from Scotty's back. Then without a pause, he slid his arms around Scotty from behind and held on to him. Scotty rested his head back against Kelly's shoulder, and they leaned on each other, weary but steady.

"Hey, Scotty," Kelly said low against Scotty's ear.

"Yes indeed."

"When we get back to Philly, are we gonna have to move your mom's furniture around?"

Scotty rocked easily on his feet, swaying them both. "Well, remember I sent her that nice fabric from Tenancingo. She probably made curtains, and _somebody's_ gotta hang 'em."

"It's curtains for us, Rocky." Kelly closed his eyes, smiling. He felt a little light-headed, and he hadn't even broken the seal on that tequila.

"It'll be good to get some new skills," Scotty said, his voice thrumming like electricity through Kelly's entire body.

"Just in case we find ourselves on the job market," Kelly agreed.

"You never know."

"Robinson and Scott, jacks of all trades."

Scotty hummed chidingly. "Scott and Robinson."

"Yeah, like I said."

Scotty's fingers traced along Kelly's arm in a tentative but familiar pattern. "Seems like we have a night off, though, before we have to think about any of that."

Kelly kissed Scotty's throat, lingering, feeling the pulse there jump and flutter beneath his lips. "Well hey," he said. "I didn't have any plans."

 

 


End file.
